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EDITCI) KV TtIO.SAS HAYNES.
VOIo VS. NO. 13.
qJi'c lonSavb. of
BY I*. 1,. State Printer.
And Publisher (by authority) ofthe Laws of the United States.
issrr.n E\Ein ti esday morning.
(LJ* TERMS. —Thrrt' Dollar* per annum. No subscription taken for toss than a
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CHANGE OF Dlßl'.C HON.—\\ e desire such of our subscribers as may at any
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taining several thousand names.
AD\ ERTISEMEN I'S insert- dnt the usual rates. Sales of LAND, by Adtni
•iatrators,Executors, er Guardians, ave required by law to be held on the firstTues
■day in the month, between the hours often in the forenoon and throe in the after
noon, at the Court Hon 'in the county in which the property is situate. Notice of
'•these sales must be uivr n in a public gazette SIXTY DAYS previous to the day of
•ale.
Sales of NEGROES nvi<t be at public auction, on the first Tuesday of the month
between the u«ual Im .w- of- 1 *. at the place of public sales in the county where the
letters tr-tim mt irv.oi \ Iminist* itionor Guardianship, may have been granted, first
giving SIXTY D\YS ;■ e thereof, in one of the public gazeltesof this State,
and at th 'door of the Court House where such sales are to be held.
Notice tor the < ile of P . d Property must.be given in like manner, FORTY
DAYS pievious to the day ol -ale.
Notice to tin* Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must be published FORTY
DA\S.
Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leavet« sell
LAND, must be published for FOUR MONTHS.
"Notice for leave to <cll NEGROES, must be published for FOUR MONTHS
before any order absolute shall be made by the Court thereon.
Notice ol Application for Letters of Administration must be published THIRTY
•AYS.
Noth e of Application for l etters of Disinisrion from the Administration «f an Es
tate, are required to be published monthly for SIX MONTHS.
POETRY.
From Pouhon'i American Daily Advertiser.
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
On the death of Jems R. Friedlander, President of the Pennsylvania Institution
for the Instruction of the Blind.
Hark ! heard ye not that deep, heart-rending sigh,
\Yhcr * nightie?-* eyes the gush of feeling shed !
A sad b- ivavemrnt, long impending nigh.
Ha ’u f to-t—o :r friend and guide is dead!
Alas! th •• • ’ ’ ’ ntle, kind, and true,
WIKHw b Aa -z ’vny fancy drew.
Til •m . a- * ■ n ..*! 1 land.
N • .11.1: ■ < !; I- * • k*. ahh: * light and truth;
And cold and ri-.id
Which kin I: ! ;’ - jc. st *htk«s youth;
Forever dark, th.it {nil, ox i - ■*<,
And pale that bro.v. the throne of ! juts so high.
B 'lov’d and faithful friend! no ion r.l here,
The joys of truth and scicn m to r. •.•al:
Hi- race is ended—check’d in in id-career
Of’ toil unwearied, unremitting zeal.
One mighty theme absorb’d his active mind,
To rouse to useful energy the Blind.
Despising wealth, th* applause of transient fame.
Forsaking home, mid friend* and kindred dear,
In h 'alth. and life’s meridian glow, he came.
This lonir-nejlectcd, hapless class to cheer—
Spread to th ir ’waken’d souls, the dawning light
Os mural vision, o’er their boundless night.
R^m'nibrance, oft, with ling’ri:ii T st ms. shall trace
Th • irt 1 '- w Inch adorn’d hi • weli-tn ight mind
Ret ail the bounties of hi* manly face,
Wlrr ' all might read hi* love fm human kind.
Reaming from orbs «<» noble, full, anti bncrht,
While bis soli accents yielded rich delight.
Wh'ntim? ha* silver’d o’er each youthful head
That bow’d to him, instructions truths to hear,
A fr< .-hen’d vigour round their hearts shall spread,
For early joys, by virtuous lives made dear;
Th? voice, the touch, so gentle and so mild!
They won the soul of each afflicted child.
But, he i* gone!—Tin?course of Providence,
Who shall presume, wilth impious thought to lean?
God's wisdom rules. Shall weak, misjudging sense
Seek out hi.- dark, mysterious ways to man ?
• Then cease, our unavailing tears to flow,
And bow resign'd to him who deals the blow.
Fuit’i paint aloft, r ■> scenes beyond the sky,
Wh're hi pure spirit, freed from toil anil care,
In b I'- r?p»>» ■ . bid from mortal eye,
By I?. f rinui’n •. breathing hcav’nly air;
Bv kindr <1 , irit- w. Icom'd, as they sing
Th 'ir s mg* of praise to Heav’n’s Almighty King!
Wii-n th I t*! trump shall wake the sleeping dead,
That band whose «>rhs were long iu darkness seal’d,
Sh ill * c a flood of light and glory spread,
And all th ir benefactors stand reveal’d:—
From their lov’d Saviour, rich rewards be giv’n,
Through all the wide eternity of Heav’n.
Philadelphia , March, 1839. B.
TSIE SO A TO ISIS MOTHER.
BY SAMVEL LOVER.
There was a place in childhood that I remember well,
An.l th ‘re, a voice of sweetest lone bright fairy tales did tell;
And il 'w<r’ ■ • nd fond embrace were civen with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place upon my mother’s knee.
When fnirv tair* wcreerd d, “Good night!” she softly said,
And ‘ i-*’d ami laid me dow n to sleep within my tiny bed;
And holy words sb? taught m n there—methinks I yctcansee
Har ang I eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother’s knee.
In the hickne * of my childhood, the perils of my prime,
The sorrow •• of my riper; -ar-, the cares of every time;
Wh 11 doubt or danger weighed me down, then pleading all for me,
It was a Lrventpra; er to heaven that bent my mother’s knee.
And enn I thi* remember, and e’er forget toprove
The glow of hoi v gratitude—the fondness of my love ?
Wlr-n thou art ftcble, mother, come rest thy arm on me,
And let thy cherish’d child support the aged mother’s knee ?
~ 1S CEL L A NEOUS. ~
THE ME!<CII VX’T’S D AUGHTER AND THE JUDGE.
Il w-.i< ill- I>l rv mi l s mg—the land peopled with
the iiiftniii -- I’ tit tin htx put—the hind over which the
»h >d >v < «>f >l> •fi> ' 11 re.t' . more glowingly than a present
glorv. It w 11. out mil Itulv ; the air, likea sweet odour, was
to the ~e<i-•, a< <<nt thoughts are to the mind, or tender feelings
to the heart, lire filling serenity and peace. The sweet air
swept babul v over the worn brow of an invalid, giving in the
pallid hue of his countenance the first dawn of returning
iiealth.
Tti- eye of the invalid was fixed on the dark characters of a
hook in 1 tttnbrons bindiii- ami massive clasps, which the Rax
btirgliCitib would now i<m>idtr an in valuable black letter;
and $0 abMii’b*-! Wasdie in its perusal, that he heard not the
apprnachiltg stefw <>f until the sound of their greetings
roused bnn from hi* m> dilation*.
•‘The S finis litve \ffii in their keeping!” said his elder vis
itor, a man wh >'<■ brtiw Imre traces of age, though time had
dealt leniently w ith him.
The dear M ><| >nia bless you!” ejaculated his other visi
* a ymmg trirl witb the large flashing eye, the pure oval
", ami tda-sic contour of Italy.
I'ite inv.ibd I.o'a- ; hi- head to each of these salutations.
Ami now ■: i<; the mincliant, for such was the elder vis
itor, *• th o \ to • ~ .1 I- flin- and your strength return
iiiir, m• y w>• m> 1 | ■ . a \ nnr I; m ;m-l country.”
A »ii"bt ll.i-h p 1 . lin He lace of the sick man ;he
was silent lor a mmn-m, .s i innmniipr with himself, and then
replied, “I am (l | England, ul , „ oliji<.-r,*aibeit, of the lowest
rank.”
Engi imi ! ’ lias ily re,ponded the merchant, “of Eng
an . ol heretic England !” He crossed himself devoutly,
and started back as if afraid of C(>nt'.iiniiiation.
may not deny home ami country,” replied the soldier
mildly. ’
“ I <-mld incur the < h mil's een.ure for harboring;
thee! ex. 1am...1 th. merchant; knowest „ol what
yarns and penalties may be mine for doing thee this service”’ 1
“Then l"t me f.ntli,” replied the soldier; you have been to
me.the goo I Samaritan ; and I would not requite von with
evil; let me go on my way, and may th- blessing ofheaven be I
upon von in the hour of your own need.”
“ Nay, nay, I said not so. Thou hast not jet strength for
(he travel, and In ,id..s England was once one of the brightest
jewels iii our holy father’s crown, and she might reconcile her
self again ; but I fear me, she will not, for your master, Henry,
is a violent, hot-blooded man, and he bath torn away the king-
Standard of Union
dom from apostolic care. Know you that jour land is under
an edict, and that I, as a true son ol Indy inotherchurch, ought
not now be changing words with thee !”
“ Even so,” replied the soldier, “ but there are many that
think the king’s grace hardly dealt by.”
“The shepherd knowest best how to keep his fold,” replied
the merchant, hastily ; “but you are the king’s soldier; you
take his pay, yon eat his bread, and doubtless ought to hope
the best for him, and even so do I. I would that he might re
pent and bumble himself, and then our holy father would again
receive him in the fold ; but now 1 bethink me, thou wert read
ing—What were thy studies?”
'1 he brow ol the soldier clouded—he hesitated a moment,
but then gathering up his tesolution replied, “ In the din ofbat
tle this book was my breastplate, in the hour of sickness my
best balm,” and he laid the open volume before the merchant.
“ Holy saint!” exclaimed the merchant, crossing himself, and
drawing back as he beheld the volume w hich his church Ittfd
closed against the layman. “ Thon art among the heretics
who bring down a curse upon thy land ! Nay, thy- sojourn
here may bring down maledictions upon me and mine, upon my
house and home! But thou shalt forth! I will not harbor
thee! I will deliver thee over to the church, that she may
chasten then ! Away from him, my child ! away from him!”
#*'* * * #
The soldier sat sad and solitary, watching the dying light of
the sun as he passed majestically on the shrine in other hands.
One ray rested on the thoughtful brow of the lonely man as he
sat bracing up his courage to meet the perilous future. As he
thus mused a voice broke upon Ids reverie.
“ You are thinking of your own far oil home,” said the Ita
lian girl: “ How I wish that all I love had but one home—it
is a grief to have so many homes!”
“ There is such a home,” replied the soldier.
“Ah !” replied Emilia: “ but they say that heretics come
not there ! Promise me that you w ill not be a heretic any lon
ger.”
The soldier smiled and sighed.
“ You guess why lam here to night,” resumed the Italian
girl. “ 1 know it by that smile and sigh. You think that I
am come to tell you to seek your own land and home, and !
therefore, you smiled, and you just breathe out one little sigh |
because yon are to leave the bright suit —and me.”
“ Ami then to leave you, perhaps to be delivered over to i
your implacable church !”
Emilia crossed herself. “ No, no, go to your own land and
be happy. Here is money ; nty father could not denj’ me
when I begged it of him with kisses and tears. Go and be hap
py, and forget us.”
“ Never !” exclaimed the soldier earnestly—“ never; and
you, my kind and gentle nurse, and good angel—vou have
brought hope to my pillow, and beguiled the sad hours ofsick
ness in it foreign land—words*are but poor things to thank thee
with.”
“ J shall see you no more !” said the young Italian, “ aiit! !
what shall make me happv when yon are gone? Who shall!
tell me tales of floods and ft id-? I have been happv while jam
was here, and jet we met v. rj sadly. My heart stood still
when we first found j<m covered with blood, on vottr way back
to Milan after the battle. You lad crept under a hedge, aswe |
thought to die. But I took courage to lav my hand upon your
heart,and it still beat; so we brought you home; and never
was a morning passed, hut 1 have gathered the sweet flowers to
freshen yonrsick pillow ; and while you were insensible in that !
terrible fever, I used to steal into your chamber and kneel at !
your bed-foot and pray for the Madonna’s care. And when !
yon revived yon smiled at mv 11 twers, and when you had voice '
to speak, thanked me.”
Emilia’s voice was lost in sob'-, and what wonder if one from
man’s sterner nature mingled with them?
The morrow’ came. The Italian girl gathered a last flower,
and gave it in tearful silence to the soldier. He kissed the
fragrant gift, and then with a momentary boldness, the fait
hand that gave it, and departed. The young girl watched his
footsteps till they were lost to sight, listening till they were lost
to sound, and then abandoned herself to weeping.
“ Thou art sad, dear daughter,” said a venerable father to
his child, as they traversed that once countrified expanse thro’
which we jostle on our way from the City to Westminster.
“ Thou art sad, dear danghier.”
“Nay my father,” replied the maiden, “I would not do so;
but it is hard alwajs to wear a cheerful countenance when—”
“ The heart is sad, thou would.-l say—”
“ Nay, I mean it not.”
“ I have scarcely seen thee smile since we entered this Eng
land-—1 need not say this heretic England.”
“ Hush ! dear father, hush !” the winds may whisper it ; see
you not that we are stirroundtd by a multitude ?”
“They are running madly to some revelry.”
“Let us leave the path, then,” said the girl ; “ it suits not
onr fallen fortunes, or our dishonored faith, to seem to mingle
in this stream of folly. DouLtless the king hath some new pa
geantry.”
“ Well, and if it be so,” replied the father, “ haply the gew
gaw and show might bring back the truant smile to thy lip,
and lost lustre to thine eye. Thou art too young to be thus
moodily sad. See how’anxious, how eager, bow happy seem
this multitude ! not one care worn brow ! —thou mayest catch
their cheerfulness. We will go w ith the stream.”
The girl offered no further resistance. They were strangers
in the land ; poor, almost penniless. They had come from
their own country to reclaim a debt which one of the nobles of
the court had incurred in more prosperous days when the mer
chant was rich in silver and gold and merchandize.
The vast throng poured on, swelling until it became a migh
ty tide ; the bells pealed out, the cannon bellowed, human
voices augmented the dm. The Thames was lined on either
bank ; every building on it* margin crowded, and its surface
peopled. Every sort of aquatic vessel covered its bosom, so
that the flowing river seemed some broad road teeming w ith
life.—Galley alter galley, glittering with the gold and die pur
ple, came on laden with the wealth, and the pride, and the
beauty of the land, and presently the acclamation ofa thousand
voices rent the skies, “The king! the king! long live the
king!” He came—Henry VHI came, in all the regal dignity
and gorgeous splendor,.in which he so much delighted.
And now began the pageant, contrived to throw odium on
Rome, and to degrade the pretensions of the Pope. Two gal
leys, one hearing the arms of England, ami the other marked
by the papal insignia, advanced towards each other, and the
fictitious contest commenced.
Borne on by the crowd, our merchant and his daughter bad
been forced into a conspicuous situation. The peculiar dress,
the braided hair, the beauty and foreign aspect of the girl, had
marked her out to the rude gallantry of the crowd ; so that the
father and daughter were themselves objects of interest and cu
riosity.
The two vessels joined, and the mimic contest was begun.—
Os course the English colors triumphed over the papal. Up
to this point, the merchant bore his pangs in silence; but when
the English galley had assumed the victory, then came the trial
of patience. Effigies of the cardinals were hurled into the
stream, amidst the shouts and derisions of the mob. At each
plunge, groans issued from his tortured breast. It was in vain
that Emilia dung to his arm, and implored him, by every feac,
to restrain himself. His r I aioiis zeal overcame his prudence;
and when, at last, th" figure of the Pope, dressed in his ponti
fical robes, was liml.-d into the tide, the loud exclamation of ag
ony and horror burst from his lips. “ Olr, monstrous impiety
of an accursed and sacri e ions Ling!” sounded loudly above the
din of the mob.
It was enough; the unhappy merchant was immediately
consigner! over to the secular arm.
<>b, sad were those prison floors! The girl told her beads
—the father prayed to all the saints—and then came the vain
' < ohm, ation l.y uhii h cadi endeavored to cheat the oilier. They
i »'* " BUlll, y land, its balmy air. its living beau-
1 ty, and that thought was home.
t.EOlit.l l, TIISDVV MORNING, APRIL 33, IS3».
Our Cottsrimcc—Our Country—Our Party.
November came with all its gloom—the month that should
have been the grave of the year, coining as it does with the
shroud and cerecloth, foggy, dark and dreary; the father’s
brow numbered more wrinkles, the once black hair was more
nearly’ bleached, the features more attenuated.
And th<-daughter—ah! youth is the transparent lamp of
hope—but in her the light was dim.
In fear and trembling the unhappy foreigners waited the day
of doom. The merchant’s offence was one little likely to meet
with mercy. Henry was jealous of his title of head ofthe church.
He Isad drawn up a code of articles of belief, which his subjects
were desired to subscribe to ; he had instituted a court, of
which he had made Lord Cromwell vicar general, for the ex
press trial of those whose orthodoxy in the king’s creed was
called in question. Neither could the unhappy merchant hope
to find favor with the judge, for it was well known that Crom
well was strongly attached to the growing reformation ; and
from •he acts of severity with which he had lately visited some
ofthe adherents of the Romish creed, in his new character of
vicar-general, it was scarcely probable that be would show
mercy to one attached, by lineage, and love, to papal Rome.
Strangers, as they were, poor, unknowing and unknown,
what had they not to fear, and what was left for hope !
The morning of trial came. The fogs of that dismal mouth
spread like a datk veil over our earth. There was no beantv
in the landscape, no light in the heavens, and no hope in the
heart.
The judges took their places ; a crowd of wretched delin
quents came to receive their doom. We suppose it to be a re
lim ment ol modem days, that men are not punished for their
ciimes but only to deter others from committing them. This
court of Henry’s seemed to think otherwise; there was all the
array of human passions in the judges as well as in the judged.
On one hand, recreant fear abjured his creed ; on another he
roism braved all contingencies, courting the pile and the stake,
with even passionate desire; and the pile and the stake were
given with stern and unrelenting cruelty.
At length there stood at the bar an aged man and a youth
ful girl ; the long white hair of the one fell loosely over the
shoulders, at.td left unshaded a face wrinkled as much by care as
by age ; the dark locks ofthe other were braided over a coun
tenance clouded by sorrow, and wet with tears.
Ihe mockery of trial went on. It was easy to prove what
even the criminal did not attempt to gainsay. The aged mer
chant avowed his fidelity to the Pope as a true son of the church;
denied the supremacy of Henry over any part of the fold, and
thus sealed his doom.
1 here was an awful stillness through the court—stillness the
percursor of doom—broken only by the sobs of' the weeping
girl, as she clung to her father’s arm. Howbeit, the expected
sentence was interrupted ; there came a sudden rush, fresh at
tendants thronged the court. “Room for Lord Cromwell!
room for Lord Cromwell!” and the vicar general came in his
pomp -iti.l his state, w ith all the insignia of office, to assume the
place <>f pre-einitietice at that tribunal. Notesof the proceed
ing; were laid before Lord Cromwell. He wis told of the in
tended sentence, and he made a gesture of ipprobation. A
gleam of hope had dawned upon the mind of the Italian girl as
Lord Cromwell entered. She watched his countenance while
he read ; it was stern, indicative of calm deteruination ; but
there were lines in it that spoke more of mistaken duty than in-!
mite cruelty.—Yet when the vicar general gave his token of
assent, the steel entered Emilia’s soul, and a sol, the veriest!
accent of despair, rang through that court, and where it met
with a human heart, pierced through all the crcelty and op-i
pression that artm-d it, and struck upon some o' the natural
feelings thajt divide men from minsters.—That sound struck
upon Lord Cromwell’s ear, bis eye sought the pliee whence it
proceeded; it rested on Emilia and her father. A strange
emotion passed over the face of the stern judge—a perfect still- !
ness followed.
Lord Cromwell broke the silence. He gfanCed over the
notes that hail been handed to him, speaking*iij a low voice
apparently to himself-—“ Front Italy—a merchant—Milan—
ruined by the wars—ay, those Milan wars wftre owing to Cle
ment’s ambition, and Charles’s knavery—the loss of substance
—to England to reclaim an old indebtment.”
Lor<l Cromwell’s eye rested once more upon the merchant
and his daughter. “Ye are of Italy,—from Milan, is that your
birth-place ?”
“We are Tuscans,” replied the merchant; ‘ and oh ! noble
lord, it there is mercy in this land, show it now to this unhappy
girl-”
“To both, or to neither!” exclaimed the girl; “we will live
or we will die together.”
Ihe vicar general made answer to neither. He rose ab
rubtly ; ata sign given by him, the proper officer declared the
court
some went w hither they would—others, whither they would
not ; but all dispersed.
A faint and solitary light glanced from a chink of the prison
walls—it came from the narrow cell of the Italian merchant
and his daughter.
The girl slept—ay, slept. Sleep does not always leave the
wretched, to light on lids unsullied witn a tear. Reader, hast
thou known intense misery, and canst thou not remember how
thou hast felt and wept, and agonised, until the very excite
ment of thy mi-ery wore out the body’s power of endur. nee,
and sleep, like a torpor, a lethargy, bound thee io its chains ?
Into such a sleep had Emilia fallen ; she was lying on the pri
i son floor, her lace pale as if ready for the grave, the tears yet
resting on her cheek, and over her sat the merchant, leaning,
asking himself whether, treasure that she was, and had ever
been to him, he could wish that sleep to be the sleep of death.
'1 he clanking of a key caught the merchant’s ear; a gentle
step entered their prison. The father’s first thought was for
his child.' He made a motion to enjoin silence ; it was obeyed;
his visitor advanced with a quiet tread; the merchant looked
upon him with wonder. Surely; no; and yet could it lie ?•
that his judue—Lord Cromwell, the vicar general,stood before
i him ; and stood, not with threatening in Jiiseyej not with de
minciation on his lip, but took his stand on the other side of
i poor Emilia, gazing on her with an eye in which tenderness
and compassion were conspicuous.
Amazement bound up the faculties of the merchant. lie
seemed to himself as one that dreamed.
“ Awake, gentle girl, awake,” said Lord Cromwell, as he
stooped over Emilia. “Let me hear thy voice once
more as it sounded in mine ear in other days. *
The gentle accents fell too lightly to break the spell of that
happy slumber; and the merchant, whose fears, feelings ami
confusion, formed a perfect chaos, stooping over his child, sud
denly awoke her with the cry of “ Emilia ! Emilia ! awake
and behold our Judge !”
“ Nay, nay, not thus roughly,” said Lord Cromwell, but
the sound had already recalled Emilia to a sense of wretched
ness. She half raised herself from her recumbent position into
a kneeling one, shadowing her dazzled eyes with her hand, her
streaming hair falling in wild disorder over her, and thus rest
ing at the feet of her judge.
“Look on me, Emilia !” said Lord Cromwell. And en
couraged by the gentle accents, she raised her tear-swollen
eyes to his face. As she did so, the vicar general lifted from
his brow his plumed cap, and reveahd the perfect outline of
his features. And Emilia gazed as if spell bound, until gradu
ally shades of doubt, of wonder and recognition, came strug
irling over hercountenance, and in a voice of passionate amaze
ment, she exclaimed, “ It is the same! It is our sick soldier
guest !”
“ Even so,” said Lord Cromwell, “even so, my dear and
gentle nurse. He who was then the poor dependent on your
bounty, receiving from your charity hisdaily bread asan aims,
hath this day presided over’the issues of life and death, as your
judge ; but fear not Emilia ; the sight of thee, gentle girl,
comes like the memory ofyouth and kindly thoughts across the
sterner mood that bath lately darkened over me. They whose
voice may influence the destiny of a nation gradually lose the
memory of gentler thoughts. It may be Providence hath sent
thee to melt me back again into a softer nature. Many a heart
shall be gladdened, that, but for my sight of thee, had been sad
unto death. I bethink me, gentle girl, of the flowers, laden
with dew and rich in fragrance, which thou used to lay upon
tny pillow, while this head throbbed with agony of pain upon
it; fondly thinking that their sweetness would be a balm; and
how thou wert used to steal into my chamber and listen to tales
of this, the land of my home ! Thou art here ; and how hast
thou been welcomed ? To a prison and well nigh to death.—
But the poor soldier hath a home ; come thou and thy father
and share it.
An hour! who dare prophecy itsevents? At the beginning
of that hour, the merchant and his daughter had been the sor
rowful captives ofa prison ; at its close, they were the treasured
guestsofa palace.
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE.
1 he following is an extract from a letter written by Lafay
ette, tn the year 1308, after the death of his wife, to M. Latour
Mabourg, translated from one of the last volumes of the Me
moirs of Lafayette, lately published F» vrmsi.
thiny-tbur years of a union in which her tender
ness, her goodness, her elevation, her delicacy, the generosi
ty of her soul, charmed, embellished, did honor to my life, I
was s<) accustomed to all that she was to me, that 1 did not dis
tinguish her from my own existence. She was fourteen years
old and I was sixteen when her heart amalgamated with all
which could interest me. I thought I loved her, that I could
not do without her, but it was only when I had lost her that I
was able to discover what remains to me for the close of a
life which had been so diversified, and for which nevertheless
there remains no longer either happiness or even content.—
I hough she was attached to me, I may say so, by the most pas
sionate sentiment, I never perceived in her the lightest shade
of authoritativeness (d'exigence) of discontent, never any tiling
which did not leave me the entire freedom in all my underta
kings. And if I go back to the days of our youth, I find in
her, traits of an unexampled delicacy and generosity. You
saw her, alwayi associated, heart and soul, in all my sentiments,
tny political wishes, enjoying every thing which might confer
honor on me, still more, as she would say, what made me to be
wholly known, and more than all, glorying in those occasions
when she saw me sacrificing glory to a sentiment of goodness.
Her aunt, Madame Tessc, said to me yesterday, ‘I never could
have imagined that one could be such a fanatic for your opin
ions, and yet so free from party spirit.’ Indeed her attachment
to our doctrines never for a moment abated her indulgence,
her compassion, her good will for persons of another party.
She never was soured by the violent hatred of which 1 was the
object, the ill-treatment and injurious conduct toward me, were
regarded by her as follies indifferent to her, from the point
from which she looked at them, and where her good opinion
chose to place me.
Hers was a most entire devotion. I may say Hiat during
forty-four years, I never suflered for a moment the shadow of
a restraint, that all her habits were, without affectation, subor
dinate to my convenience, that I had the satisfaction to see my
most sceptical friends as constantly received, as well beloved,
as much esteemed, and their virtues as completely acknowledg
ct., os if there had no difference or religious opinion,
that she never expressed any other sentiment than that of hope,
that in continuing to reflect, with the uprightness of heart which
she knew belonged to me, I could finally be convinced. Il was
with this feeling she left me her last regards, begging me to read
for the love of her, some books, w hich I shall certainly examine
again with new interest, and calling her religion, to make me
love it better, perfect freedom. She often expressed to me
the thought that she should go to Heaven, and dare 1 add that
this idea was not sufficient to reconcile her to quitting me. She
often said to me, life is short, full of trouble, may we meet
again in God. She me, ivished us alt the peace*of the
I—orcL vu.v oljU was I.LU.J pi ay lug tn ner oeo.
One of her last nights there was something celestial in the
manner in which she recited twice in succession, with a firm
voice, a passage of scripture appplicable to her situation, the
same passage which she recited to her daughter on per
ceiving the spires of Olmutz. Shall I speak to you of the
pleasure, ever renewed, which an entire confidence in her gave
me, which was never exacted, which was received at the end of
three months as at the first day, which was justified by a discre
tion proof against all things, by an admirable understanding
of all my feelings, my wants, and the wishes of my heart. All
this was mingled with a sentiment so tender, and opinion so
exalted, a w’orship, if I dared so speak, so sweet and flattering,
more especially gratifying, as coining from the most perfectly
natural and sincere person who ever lived.
ELI WHITNEY.
The following extract from Silliman’s Journal of Arts and
Sciences, touching the early history of this distinguished indi
vidual, a native of Massachusetts, we publish because we think
many thousands of (Air readers would be glad to know some
thing of the inventor of the Cotton Gin. We saw the late re
sidence of this gentleman when in Connecticut, apd could but
feel gratitude and veneration for one who bad saved the South
from so much dull employment. It is painful to know that he
was not properly rewarded for his ingenuity.— Watchman of
the South.
Eli Whitney, Esq. inventor of the Cotton Gin, was bdrti in
Westborough, Mass. 1765 ; made a violin when he was only
twelve years old; shortly after, he took his father’s watch to
pieces, and put it together again unknown to his father, and
without any assistance. During the Revolutionary War, his
principal employment in Summer was farming, and making
wrought nails in Winter. What time he could redeem from his
regular employment, he spent in repairing vi°hiis, making long
pins for ladies to fasten on their bn»«ets, in making walking
canes, and in similar trials of ms mechanical ingenuity ; ma
king his own tools, and executing his jobs to the entire satis
faction of his employers. At the age of nineteen he was desi
rous of a liberal education, but could not obtain his father’s
consent. At the age of twenty-three he entered the Freshman
class in Yale College, graduated in 1792, and gave his father
his note for money advanced towards his education. In 1793
he invented the Cotton Gin, a machine for cleansing seed from
cotton ; and in June of this year applied to Mr. Jefferson, then
Secretary ol State, for a patent. By this ingenious invention
the cotton growing districts were trippled in value. In Janua
ry, 1793, he turned his attention to the manufacture of mus
kets, and entered into contract with the United States Govern
ment lor the manufacture of ten thousand stand of arms, which
at thirteen dollars forty cents each, amounted to one hundred
and thirty-four thousand dollars. The site which he purchas
ed for his works, was at the foot ol the celebrated precipice,
called East Rock, within two miles of New Haven. This
spot now called Whitney ville, is justly admired for the roman
tic beauty of its scenery. Such impediments retarded this un
dertaking, that the entire business relating to the contract was
not closed until January, 1809, and the final balance due Mr.
Whitney was only two thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.
So low was the state of the mechanic arts in the United States,
at that time, that he had to rely mostly on his own inventive
powers, and to manufacture his own tools as he advanced ; yet
such was the confidence of the Government in his mechanical
skill and sterling integrity, that they advanced the necessary
hinds to carry oti the business. Mr. Calhoun once said that
Government has saved at its two armories twenty-five thousand
dollars annually by Mr. Whitney’s improvements in this branch
of business.
In September, 1822, he experienced the first attack of his
complaint, which threatened his life; an enlargement t.f the
prostrate gland. For three weeks the event was very doubt
ful, during which time he suffered occasionally paroxysms of
pain, of from thirty to forty minutes in continuance, even be
yond description. These were repealed six or eight times in
twenty-four hours. For six weeks he was confined to his room,
at the end of which time he was able to walk about the house,
and enjoy the society of his friends. Early in January 1823,
he had to endure another period of suffering no less alarming
and distressing than the former. With such alternations of
awful suffering and practical repose, lie reached the 12th No
vember, 1824, at which time bis suflerings became almost tin-
P. L. KOBIIYSON, PROPRIETOR.
I remitted, until the Sth of January, 1825, when he expired;
i retaining his consciousness to the last, closing his own eyes,
and making an effort to close his mouth. His funeral was at!
tended, by a large concourse of his feHow’-citizens, who assem
bled in one of the chinches, where an appropriate religions
service was performed. His tomb is after the model of that of
Scipio at Rome. The foundations of the monument are laid
at the bottom of the grave, on each side, ami lower than the
coffin. An arch of stone is thrown over the coffin, and the
structure then rises solid as an ancient temple. The material
of the monument is the fine sandstone of Chatham, Connecticut.
The several layers of stone are composed each of one stone
only-
On Mr, Whitney’s tomb is the following inscription—
ELI WHITNEY.
The inventor of the Cotton Gin.
Os the useful Science and Arts, the efficient patron and improver.
In .be sociat relations of life a model el excellence. While
private affection weeps over his tomb, his country
honors his memorv.
PUN PEDAGOGICAL.
In an Irish story in Bentley’s Miscellany, a murdered school
master is said to have been found dead in the road, with his
head ftdl of fractions.
“All in jommethry” said Larry. “And there was talk of
shoe-aside.”
“The horse’s shoe?” asked Oonah.
“No alanna” said Larry, “shoe-aside is Latin for cutting
your throat.” °
“ But he did’nt cut his throat,” said the w idow.
Sure it s all one” said Larry, “whether he did it with a ra
ztron his throat, or a hammer on his head. It’s shoe-aside all
the same.”
“But there was no hammer found.”
“No, but he might have hid the hammer after he did it, to
take off the disgrace of the shoe-aside.”
“But wasn’t there any life in him when found?”
“Not a taste. The cowners set on him, and he never said
a word agin il, and if alije he would.”
“And didn’t they find any thing at all?”
“Nothing but the vardick.”
“And was that what killed him?”
“No my dear; ’twas the crack on the head ; but the var
dick was, ’(was done, and somebody done it, and they were
black-guards whoever they were, and persons unknown.”
Monomania.— Some days ago a Journeyman Printer in a
joke threw something at one of his companions, which broke
the glass of his spectacles, and slightly wounded him. The
feelings of the sufferer were so severely excited by what he
considered a premeditated insult, that he insisted upon having
his injured honor healed by a mortal duel. In vain the thought
less offender protested his n totence of any inlet d d outrage,
and the infatuated man continued to urge his hostile appeal
till he found it totally iu vain. Conceiving himself thus degra
ded foeever, he shut himself up in his room, in the Rue de
Foin, and there at length did, as he madly supposed, justice to
himself by Cutting his throat the morning before last. His fa
ther is said to have put an end to his life in a similar fit of mo
nomania.—Galignani.
A Miser's Reflections. — On affixing his signature to his Will,
before using it however, he uttered ■ deep drawn sigh, or rath
er groan, and exclaimed in a sorrowful voice, “Mine Gott! is
dis all what a long life come to ? For dirty or forty years,
since I arrived at Bristol, I gave mine time and labor and
judgment, droadging like a slave, and denying myself all holy
days and lugsuries and comforts, dat I sebrape togedder, by
hook and by «*ook- a handsome.broperty; and iu vou fiddle
mom-cTiT, via one single sgratch oT tiiin.'pvu, it suuii u.i pass
away vrom me for eber and eber, and attoder shall enjoy it:—
houses and stocks and debts and bills, I must leave dem all pe
hind. Dis is what makes it so bitter to die.”
A woman wants one thing only—a man, two.— Oh pitiable
condition of human kind ! One color is born to slavery abroad,
and one sex to slavery at home ! A woman to secure her com
forts and well being in this country stands in need of one thing
only, which is a good husband ; but a man has to provide him
self with two things, a good wife and a good razor, and it is
more difficult to find the latter than the former. The Doctor
made these remarks w hen his chin was smarting after an un
comfortable operation . Mrs. Dove retorted by saying, that
women had still the less favorable lot, for scarce as good razors
might be, good husbands were still scarcer. Ay, said the doc
tor, Deborah is right, and it is even so for the goodness of
wife, husband and razor, depends upon their temper., and taking
in all circumstances and causes, natural and adventitious, we
might reasonably conclude that steel would more often be
tempered precisely to the just degree than that the elements of
which humanity is composed should be all nicely proportioned
and amalgamated happily.
Ilisadvantagc of beauty.— A French priest says that there
is twice as much merit in effecting the salvation of a beautiful
woman than there is of a homely, one—the former having the
most temptations, and the latter going to Heaven of course.—
Wonder how many women there are who would increase the
chances of their salvation at the expense of their beauty.
[Boston Post.
Item for Printers.— The publisher of the Somerset (Md.)
Herald, boasts that a compositor in that office recently worked
from 6 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon, and set up 19,009
ms, Burgeois type, principally s-did matter. He wants any of
the “light fingered typographical gentry,” in the cities to beat
it.
[ That is nothing to what a chap in our office done : He set
20,000 —broke it down and distributed the pi —all in one day,
from 6 to 6.— Phil. Sent.
Frightful.— A woman in Barrington, N. H. a few days ago,
in preparing a beet for boiling, which measured thirty inches
in circumference, discovered in cutting it open, in the middle a
large newt, as they are sometimes called, a species of the lizard,
which probably’ got there by some crack in the beet while grow
ing, which finally closed over the animal.
They are supposed to be very poisonous, and had she boil
ed, without discovering it, would perhaps have caused the death
of some who might have ate of it. Much care should be ta
ken in preparing cabbages, beets and other vegetables for the
table, that they do not contain impurities of some kind.
[Dover Gaz.
The family of Smith is increasing.— The wife of a Mr.
Smith, residing at Deering, in New Hampshire, lately gave
birth to four children!
Absence of mind.— Mr. Snooks informs us of a “vvery pecoo
licr” case of absence of mind, which occurred during the late
storm. It is soon told: when it commenced raining, a man
hoisted himself above his umbrella, walked up street, and did
not discover his mistake until a person wanted to borrow him.
—Baltimore Sun.
“ M ill it stick ?” said a worshipper at the shrine of Bacchus
to one who had just turned off a glass of the O-be-joyful ten
dered him by the questioner. “ I believe so,” was the reply.
“It serves you better than me then,” said the first; “I had
just (jwahovved it buck the third time before you came in.
“ I never go throughMs gate but I have to go round," said
a peevish boy the other day at a gate he could not open.
Ha’nt nobody seen nothingof no hurubrella no where about
here ?
1 say, Mister, of you’ll untwist that I’ll gin you an answer.
A good rcd of dogs.— A gentleman of this county informs
us that he has several dogs that can take the back trail of a
two year old buck, and follow it where he was fawned. Wq
hardly believe it.— Southern Advocate.
WiIOLK AO. 373.